


conflict of interest

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: He shifts a bit, trying to get a different angle so he can check his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. A couple of seconds’ more squinting – Ross must be nearly done whining, surely – and he knows he’s right.Craig Maxwell-Keys is wearing rainbow laces.George searches his memory for if he’s ever done that before. It’s not a weekend designated for wearing them, and even George himself only has plain black laces, and he’s actually gay.But – what if – is he?
Relationships: George Ford/Craig Maxwell-Keys
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	conflict of interest

**Author's Note:**

> les13fernwehfire on Tumblr asked: _Do you know if any writers in the Rugby Union RPF are accepting asks for stories right now? I'm not seeing any, but after watching a 2018 Leicester game referred by Craig Maxwell-Keys I find myself wanting to read a George Ford/Craig Maxwell-Keys story._
> 
> I really took this prompt and ran with it, but I hope you like it!
> 
> The highlight of the match mentioned in the prompt (for me, at least) was Craig being knocked over, as shown in this photo:
> 
> Given that the photo was taken in 2018, and he didn't come out publicly until December 2019, him wearing rainbow laces intrigued me somewhat...

George can’t really say he notices Craig Maxwell-Keys much, the first time he referees one of Leicester’s matches. He’s just a touch judge, on the sidelines while Wayne Barnes does the complicated stuff in the middle, but it’s enough for George to do a doubletake – first, when he reads the name on the team sheet, and then again when he sees him waiting in the tunnel for the players to run out.

Craig Maxwell-Keys has the most ridiculous name and the worst baby face George has ever seen, and that’s saying something when _Christophe Ridley_ is on the RFU refereeing payroll.

Still, George is more concerned with cajoling his team into some kind of attacking structure than however stupidly young Maxwell-Keys – Craig – looks. He screams them into a lead at halftime, Jonny backing him up on the wing, but it’s all for nothing at the final whistle.

It’s okay, in the long run – Tigers always qualify for the semi-finals at the end of the season – but he’d rather not make it a habit. He tells himself, once, twice, and a third time for luck, that it’s not a big deal and at least it’s a loss to Saracens, not London Irish. He’s focused so much on dissecting the game in the handshake line that Craig barely registers, in his mind in that instant or in his longer-term memory.

He’ll feel sad about it later, but it’s just a blip on the radar of an otherwise successful season. Craig Maxwell-Keys pops up a few more times, enough for George to look him up and be baffled about how this apparent child is actually older than him.

It’s September 2018 when Maxwell-Keys takes charge of his first Leicester game, at Welford Road against Sale. George is excited at the prospect of taking down the Sharks; Tigers seem to be declining at the same rate as Sale are improving, so it should be a good matchup. Important for autumn internationals selection, too.

He’s focused on the kick-off, the first phase, the first five minutes, to the exclusion of all else, until he’s actually on the pitch, ball in his hands and waiting for the whistle to blow and the match to start.

“George, isn’t it?” Maxwell-Keys says, half an unsure smile on his face. He must be filling time until the TMO tells him to start the match.

“Yeah,” George answers. His voice is a bit gravelly already from the shouting he’d been doing before the warm-up, and he’s briefly self-conscious about his accent in comparison to the referee’s precise, southern-to-Midlands-tinged words. “Craig?”

“That’s me,” Craig says. Then he must get the word in his ear, and he nods, smile sliding from his face, business-like. “Okay. Make sure to kick to the ten-metre line, and keep it clean.”

He brings the whistle to his lips and lets out a piercing blast, triggering a roar from the Tigers faithful. George looks over to Jonny on the left wing, tilts his head in their prearranged signal, and boots the ball into the air.

It’s not that he forgets about Craig during the match – how could he, when he’s dictating the pace of play and penalising them every ten minutes? – but the thought of him as Craig, this awkward but friendly guy standing with him on the halfway line, is firmly replaced by Maxwell-Keys, the referee.

It’s better this way. He shouldn’t be focusing on the referee this much. It’s a distraction, nothing more and nothing less.

It makes it easier that Maxwell-Keys makes a few obviously bullshit calls, so George harbours absolutely no positive feelings towards him by halftime. They jog in to the changing room and Ben’s yapping on in his ear about how they need to move the Sale defence around more, and he has no spare space in his brain to think about the referee, in any capacity.

Leicester are ahead, anyway, so Maxwell-Keys’s decisions haven’t been that bad for them.

Sam James kicks off for Sale to start the second half, and George takes vindictive pleasure in noting how the opposition flyhalf doesn’t get any awkward small talk with Craig. He might just be in the zone now, but it makes George smugly pleased.

It’s all going well – a few penalties against them aside, though they were far enough ahead at halftime for it not to matter – when, just a few metres from the Leicester try line, a light blue shirt joins the cluster of green and red shirts preparing to pick and go to escape the danger zone.

A yell is halfway out of George’s throat, telling his guys to watch out, when Craig gets the whistle to his mouth and brings play to a halt for the time being. He’s back up on his feet in an instant, grinning and shaking his head at the cheers from the crowd, and George fights to keep himself in position. Tom’s already checked that he’s okay, as the actual captain, so there’s no need for him to involve himself.

The Sale captain decides now is the perfect opportunity to discuss something with the ref – probably a bone to pick about the scrum, the way Leicester have been demolishing Sale all afternoon. George lets his gaze wander; his lads all know what they’re supposed to be doing, and they’re delivering, so they can have a few seconds to compose themselves individually.

He stares around at the crowd, thousands upon thousands of people turned out to watch his team play. He hopes they’ve made it worthwhile, even if they are in the bottom half of the table at the moment. That’s by the by, though – it’s been an entertaining match, in no part down to the referee.

George looks over to Craig. He’s surprisingly tall, with a couple of inches on George to make up for his relatively slender build. He’s just scrutinising his calves – more like a runner’s than a rugby player’s, in his professional opinion, but then they probably should be – when he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye.

He shifts a bit, trying to get a different angle so he can check his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. A couple of seconds’ more squinting – Ross must be nearly done whining, _surely_ – and he knows he’s right.

Craig Maxwell-Keys is wearing rainbow laces.

George searches his memory for if he’s ever done that before. It’s not a weekend designated for wearing them, and even George himself only has plain black laces, and he’s actually gay.

But – what if – is he?

Craig blows the whistle to resume the match, and George groans internally. He’s completely out of his rugby mindset, the frame of mind he locks himself into six days out of seven, and all because of some unexpected rainbow laces.

“Good to go?” Craig says, and it takes George a second to realise he’s talking to him.

“Uh, yeah,” he stutters.

“It’s your ball, because you were in possession when I had to blow. Let’s go, then.”

Furiously shoving the innuendoes out of his mind, George taps the ball on his foot and passes it back to Ben to clear it. The forwards will have a lineout now, and he should be able to get his brain in order by the time they’ve finished faffing.

George can’t quite click back into the zone for the rest of the match, but they eke out the win. He grins, relieved, and waves the crowd before jogging over to join the back of the handshake line. This is good – it’s a win, in a season where they might not see too many of them, and at home. His mum had promised to watch, too, so it’s doubly important.

He works his way through the Sale players, slumped and defeated, making sure to pat the Curry twins on the back and tell them they played well. They’re good kids and they’ve only improved since the Argentina tour last year.

He’s congratulated all his teammates and commiserated with the opposition, so that can only leave-

“Good job,” Craig says, holding out his hand to shake.

George takes it reflexively, shakes it and lets it go. “Thank you, sir.” It’s a good thing he hadn’t noticed Craig’s eyes before the match, halfway between hazel and brown and (maybe, if he’s not projecting) a little intrigued.

He can feel Ben’s presence at his back, hear him rambling on about something, so he steps to one side and tilts his head for Craig to follow him. It’s weird, giving instructions to a referee like this, but he doesn’t have any other option. Otherwise, Ben would have got Craig’s attention, and that wouldn’t be fair. He’s straight, and married.

“George?” Craig asks, like he wants to say more but is holding himself back.

“I like your shoelaces,” George blurts out in a panic.

Craig snorts, a small grin spreading across his face. “Thanks, I stole them from the president.”

“What?” George asks, bewildered. They aren’t supposed to talk much, being a player and a referee in the middle of the pitch with thousands of people watching them, but if Craig’s trying to get across a coded message, it’s going over his head completely.

“Don’t worry about it.” Craig’s smile is fading, and he looks like he’s about to walk off. George needs to talk to him – _needs_ to.

“No, but seriously,” he says, clenching his fists and hoping against hope that none of his teammates are close enough to hear. “I like your laces.”

“Oh,” Craig says, raising his eyebrows a fraction. “Oh, you mean you like the colour?”

George nods furiously. This is the sort of code he understands. “Yeah, I do. I’d wear them myself, but, you know…”

Craig pulls a face, and George is sure that he does know. It’s nice, beyond the awkwardness and the hint of excitement in his dark eyes. It’s nice, and even exciting, to be having this conversation, everyone around them completely unaware.

“Still,” Craig says, stepping a little closer, “it’s cool. I know I’m not exactly Nigel or Alfie, but you can message me if you want.”

George grins. “Yeah. Alright.” Ben’s voice is definitely getting louder behind him, so it’s time to wrap this up before anyone hears something they shouldn’t. “See you around, mate.”

“Good luck for the rest of the season,” Craig says quietly, eyes flicking to something over George’s shoulder, and by the time George has twisted round to check where Ben is and looked back, the referee is gone, disappearing down the tunnel with the rest of the officiating team.

Craig Maxwell-Keys and rainbow laces – who’d have thought it?

*

He doesn’t message Craig in the end, although he does add him on Facebook – not on Twitter, because apparently the two years separating them in age are an entire generational divide. He’s all ready to do it, to maybe loosen the chains he has surrounding, tying down, suffocating his deepest secret, but then he stops to think about it.

The possibility of a conflict of interest lodges itself in his head, stubbornly refusing to leave. George knows there are worse ways they could be breaking that unspoken rule – Craig’s not a family member or even close – but it’s enough to puncture his brief, gung-ho enthusiasm and keep him from doing anything until the next time they see each other.

It’s a Bath-Leicester game, in the final round of the season. The Tigers haven’t done too well for themselves since the last time he saw Craig, slumping to an embarrassing eleventh place in the table. They’ve lost three on the bounce, so the boys are fired up for one last chance to finish the season well.

It can’t get any worse, right?

Somehow, George ends up at the back of the Leicester line to go out onto the pitch, against the back wall by the refs. He’s barely a foot away from Craig, but the other refs and his teammates and the home team are all around them. He can’t say anything, so he glances down to check Craig’s laces.

They’re black, matching his own and everyone else’s. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or not – it’s probably hypocritical to be annoyed at Craig trying to blend in when that’s all he’s done for his entire career.

Craig catches his eye when he drags his gaze away from the blue boots threaded through with black laces, gives half a nod. George mirrors the gesture; it’s as much as they can get away with for the moment.

Then it’s time for the match, and even without any Craig-induced distractions, they lose. 32-31, so they’re at least spared the indignity of losing at home. He’d said it couldn’t get any worse earlier – he’d been wrong. Someone’s going to be fired after this mess of a season, and he’s just grateful it isn’t going to be him.

Seeing his old teammates eases the embarrassment a little, though he’s left at a loose end once he’s congratulated all of them and patted all his guys on the back. Tom hasn’t done his team talk yet, too busy with media, so he can’t go and have a shower, or do something actually productive.

Then he notices Craig, standing by himself on the halfway line, repetitively wrapping the cord of his whistle around his wrist and undoing it again. George dares to walk closer, then coughs from about five metres away. It’s far enough away for deniability, and that’s what he needs to reassure him.

Craig lifts his chin slightly, almost an invitation. George takes a few steps closer, needing more focus in this moment than he does when lining up a kick at goal – and Craig was further away then. God, his brain isn’t helping him today.

“Hi,” he says, looking out at the Rec instead of at Craig. He’s not sure he could handle talking and looking at the same time.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Craig answers. “Tough luck at the end there.”

What’s he supposed to say to that? _Give us a few easy penalties next time, and make sure they’re from a kickable position, please._

“You didn’t message me,” Craig continues. When George sneaks a look at him, he’s fiddling with the buttons on his watch. Anyone noticing how close together they’re standing wouldn’t assume anything untoward is happening – he hopes.

“You changed your laces,” he counters.

Craig shrugs. “People were starting to ask questions, and I’m not ready to go public yet.”

“Your family know?”

“For a couple of years. You?”

“No. Nobody does except you.”

“You – wait, really?” His peripheral vision tells him that Craig’s turned to face him for the first time, but he stares resolutely ahead. “I’d hoped it would help someone, but not this fast.”

George smiles hesitantly, digs his nails into the palms of his hands. “Don’t tell me you don’t notice every single rainbow. It’s pretty hard to miss, if you know what you’re looking for.”

Craig chuckles. “I know what you mean. One of the guys at my old job had a rainbow pen for a couple of days – made my month, pathetic as that sounds.”

“What did you do before?” Craig’s a relatively junior referee for his age, and George won’t lie about being intrigued.

“Worked in a lab doing chemistry stuff, reffing on the side, until the RFU got in touch. Obviously, I wasn’t going to turn them down.”

George nods, pushing away the sinking feeling in his stomach. With all his experience outside rugby and acceptance of his sexuality and confidence to actually wear the rainbow laces instead of sitting on the website for half an hour trying to get up the courage to order some – he’s not going to want to talk to George. He’s an absolute wuss, by comparison.

“That’s cool. I’ve just done rugby, that’s all.”

“Still interesting,” Craig says, and George tries to feel like he’s being coddled. “You’ve done a lot more than me – Premiership finals and international games, for starters,”

“Easier to get picked as a player, surely?” He hasn’t really thought about it, but being one of twenty-three must be easier than one of three or four, especially for the main refereeing role.

“Not really. More players in an international squad, but more players overall – World Rugby don’t have that many qualified referees compared to players,” Craig says. George is still avoiding eye contact. “Look, I need to go now-” the pitch is virtually empty, so someone’s going to notice them soon- “but message me. I like talking to you, even if it’s not about – y’know, that stuff.”

George looks at him, finally. He’s smiling a little, face bright with contentment more than the sweat that comes with refereeing for eighty minutes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We could meet up in the offseason, something like that.”

George finally lets himself smile back. “Alright, then. Talk soon.”

They walk off the pitch together in a comfortable silence. It’s too soon, by every possible metric, but George can feel something tugging at his heart as Craig leaves for the referees’ changing room. Two conversations and a pair of rainbow laces – it doesn’t take much for him to develop a crush on someone, apparently.

*

 **GF:** hi

 **GF:** how’s the offseason going for you? do you get much time off?

 **GF:** literally never thought about it before

 **CMK:** lots of training (physical and laws stuff) but less now because the World Cup pushes back the Prem start date

 **GF:** oh right

 **GF:** so you’d be free to meet up some time soon???

 **GF:** I’m in Market Harborough mostly until camp starts next month

 **CMK:** camp never ends for me

 **GF:** what?

 **CMK:** don’t worry about it – stupid gay joke

 **CMK:** maybe weekend after next? I’ll be in Birmingham visiting family so I could come by then

 **GF:** okay cool

 **GF:** would you

 **GF:** do you

 **GF:** sorry

 **GF:** there’s lots of nice cafes round here if you like that sort of thing

 **CMK:** as long as nobody will recognise us (not that I think I’m that famous but for my job, you understand)

 **GF:** they won’t, it’s all OAPs round here

 **GF:** can’t see two feet in front of their own faces, and definitely don’t care about rugby

 **CMK:** alright sounds good

 **GF:** I’ll send you the address when I find it

 **CMK:** okay see you soon :)

 **GF:** :)

*

George can’t quite believe his own daring, both sending that first text and actually following through with it. It’s three weeks later, a warm Sunday afternoon in mid-June, and Craig’s making his way across the square to join him at his table outside the café.

He checks the time on his phone – one minute before they’d arranged to meet. It’s good to know he’s punctual, at least. George lifts a hand to wave at Craig, and he smiles back as he squeezes between two chairs.

“Afternoon,” George says, standing up to half hug him. Just normal matey things, that’s him. “Good journey over?”

Craig rests a hand on the small of his back as they hug, breath warm as it hits George’s ear. “Decent enough. I couldn’t wait to leave, though.” Answering the question in the cock of George’s head, he rushes to say, “No, nothing like that. My family are great, just too much the wrong way. My aunt’s always trying to set me up with gay guys she apparently knows.”

“What do you tell her to get her off your back?” He’s probably never going to be in that situation, but it’s good to know how to handle any unexpected surprises.

“Well, usually I just tell her to get a grip, but today I actually had a good excuse,” Craig says, smiling. “Not that I’m putting any expectations on this, but she definitely took me meeting a friend as me _meeting a friend_ , if you know what I mean? It’s a bit of a pain sometimes, but I’d rather that than them being twats about it.”

George nods, fiddling with the hem of his shirt under the table. It’s not like he has much to offer on this topic. “Do you want a drink? I can go and get one if you want.”

“Cappuccino would be good, if that’s alright,” Craig smiles, stretching his legs out in the sunlight. George tries not to stare – they’re so long, and muscular in an entirely different way from his own – and backs away. Having something to do, to distract him, will help, if nothing else.

“So what’ve you been up to recently?” he asks as he sets the tray down on their table. It’s casual, he hopes, to hide the fact he’s been thinking about what to ask for the last five minutes.

Craig shrugs, taking his coffee off the tray. “Not much. World Rugby’s supposed to be trialling some new laws for the U20 summer tours, so we ‘ve got that to brush up on, but mostly I’ve been trying to relax. A lot of running, if you find that relaxing.”

“Maybe not relaxing, but it’s good to get you out of your head.” George has experience with that, although he doesn’t _need_ it to maintain his mental equilibrium as much as he used to. “Is that most of your training, just running?”

Craig pushes his bottom lip out, like he’s offended by the question. “We do some weights as well! Cardio’s most of it, you’re right, but most of the guys like to do weights stuff after training sessions.”

“But – sorry if this is rude, but why?” The refs aren’t supposed to be hitting things, which is what most of George’s weights training is geared towards.

Craig rolls his eyes. “Don’t let any of the other refs know I’ve told you this, but for the aesthetics. Karl Dickson turned up and everyone developed a sudden inferiority complex. It’ll be half an hour running and ten minutes’ bicep curls, and I’m not kidding.”

George snorts. “Really?”

“We’re on TV a lot, mate,” Craig counters. “I don’t want to see myself on the TMO looking all scrawny while I’m awarding a penalty.” He flexes the arm not holding the coffee, and George has to look away.

“You’re not, don’t worry,” he says awkwardly. “Eddie told me to work on my biceps – well, my whole body, but mostly arms – so you’re in good company.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Craig scoffs. “You’re literally perfectly in proportion. No homo, obviously.”

“Obviously,” George echoes with a small smile. “I wouldn’t mind being a bit taller, like you are.”

“And I’d like to be more built, but that’s your speciality.”

Craig takes a long drink of his coffee, while George tries his hardest not to blush. This must be what flirting feels like, not the stressful rigmarole he’d gone through at every team Christmas party since he was about fourteen. He’s just a guy, sitting next to a guy, complimenting his body and having a mild gay panic about it.

Craig, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. While George tries and fails to hide behind the bottle of water he’d bought, the ref looks at him archly, half a smirk on his lips. Whether or not he’s holding his cup of coffee at that angle to give George the best view of his hands and his tensed forearms, it’s having an effect on him.

A phone alarm goes off, and George instinctively checks to see if it’s his. It’s highly unlikely anyone would text him, the way he struggles to talk about anything but rugby sometimes, but it’s worth a look.

He’s not disappointed to see that nobody has messaged him. Faz does every few weeks, asking his opinion on a new set play or a league match, and Ben invites him round to play with the kids every now and again, but mostly his interactions are limited to group chats and team events. It’s fine, if a little lonely.

“That was me,” Craig says, holding up his phone. “My parking ticket runs out in ten minutes, so I should probably head off.”

George glances at the time – it’s been three hours, and he’d barely noticed. “Yeah, okay. Mine will too, so – which way are you going?”

“Down Abbey Street, I think.”

“Oh, right.” He’s not disappointed, really. A few minutes less shouldn’t be much after three hours. It’s just a shame. “I’m in the opposite direction.”

Craig nods slowly, like he’s upset too. “Okay. Well, this was fun. I enjoyed it.”

“Me too.” God, this is half the reason he doesn’t hang out with people. The absence of any defined end time makes leaving excruciating. “Would you-”

“Do you want to do this again?” Craig asks at the same time.

“Sure.” He focuses on the sensation of the plastic bottle rolling between his fingers. He can’t look at Craig – what if he’s just being polite?

“Okay, great,” Craig says, and his enthusiasm seems genuine when George sneaks a look at his face. “You’re probably busier than me, the next few weeks, but text me when you’re free and we can work something out, even if it’s just a video call.”

George nods, exhaling shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I will.” He stands up as Craig does. It would be weird to stay seated, now they’ve established that they both need to leave.

The referee holds his arms out, offering a more genuine version of the hug from earlier. George hesitates. What’s he supposed to do, just grab him in a hug? “Come on, mate, it’s not that hard,” Craig chuckles, then pulls him in by the shoulders.

George forces himself to relax into it. Hugging’s nice, although he doesn’t tend to do it with match officials. There must be a rule about this sort of stuff, somewhere.

Craig pats him on the head after a couple of seconds and steps away. “See you soon, Georgie,” he says, raising his hand in farewell.

“Bye, Craig,” he murmurs as Craig walks away across the square.

They’re going to meet up again, soon, and he can’t tell if he’s more nervous or excited.

*

Their next meeting is in London, on one of the few days out of Pennyhill that they get during World Cup camp. A few guys ask how he’s spending his time off, but none of them push past his mumbled _meeting a friend_ explanation.

None of them, that is, except Faz.

“Who is it?” he asks, having cornered George about to get into his car in the carpark. Most people have left by now, but it’s not a secure environment by any stretch of the imagination.

“Nobody you know,” George replies, trying to look over Owen’s shoulder to see if he can distract him with anyone else.

“Never,” Owen scoffs. He shifts to block George’s view, the bastard. They know each other too well. “Go on, tell me. Unless it’s a _new_ person and you’re embarrassed about them?”

George doesn’t answer fast enough, and Owen pounces. “It is! Fordy, never thought I’d see the day when you made a friend outside of rugby.”

“Give over, mate,” he mumbles. If he’s quick enough, he could open the car door from behind him and jump in before Owen has a chance to react.

“So they _are_ involved in rugby?”

George screws his eyes shut. “Fuck you,” he says, though there’s no heat behind it. “You’d know who he is if I told you, but I’m not going to.”

Owen huffs, folds his arms so he’s looming over George even more than he was before. “Really, mate? If I guess, will you tell me?”

“No, mate. Now piss off – I’m going to be late.”

“Alright, buddy,” Owen says, backing off a few steps. He’s a good friend like that – pushes to the limit, but not over them. “Have fun, and tell me about it when we get back tonight?”

“If I must,” he grumbles. “Say hi to Georgie from me.”

“Will do,” Owen says, already halfway to his own car. “See you later!”

George gets into his car and locks the doors, to cocoon himself in the blissful peace and quiet. Faz has good intentions, but it makes him feel worse about his lack of a social life when he pulls something like this. Craig isn’t a mutual friend – billions of people all over the world fit into that category, so he’s perfectly justified in not telling him.

He’s not sure how Owen would take it, either – the fraternising with a ref part as much as the gay part. They’re not doing anything obviously gay, but he’s pretty sure none of the other guys are meeting up with a single, gay friend for a picnic and a walk in Hyde Park.

Maybe they are and they’re not telling him, which he can’t judge them for, but it’s hardly likely.

Brushing the thought away, he puts in the address and the car in gear. It should take about an hour to get there, so he has plenty of time to work through the potential lines of conversation in his head. He shouldn’t be treating it like planning for a game, but that’s all he knows how to do, so it’s hard to avoid.

He’s six minutes early, so he loiters by a tree and sends Craig a photo of where he is. He’s just off the main path, but he wants to make sure nothing goes wrong.

“Hi, mate,” Craig says from behind him, four and a half minutes later. He’d zoned out watching some squirrels darting over the grass, but somehow his internal timer had still been ticking.

“Hey,” he says, and this time it’s easier to go in for the hug straight away. They’re establishing a new set of expectations here, and he’s glad. It makes things so much easier.

“How’s it going?” Craig asks, falling into step with George as they amble along the path. It’s the middle of the day on a Monday, nobody else in sight. “That looks painful,” he adds, gently touching a long scratch on George’s upper arm.

“It’s okay.” Is he subconsciously matching Craig’s pace, or is he shortening his strides to fit with George’s own? Either way, they match instinctively. “Elliot – Daly, used to be Wasps but more Sarries now – got me with his studs. Hurt like a bitch for a few hours, but it’s fine now.”

“That’s good,” Craig says quietly. “How’s the rest of camp? How are you? I saw Eddie’s been stirring shit again.”

“When is he not? Honestly, I’d rather he just kept his mouth shut and let us get on with stuff.” There’s so much more he could rant about on this topic, but he doesn’t want to scare Craig off this early. He wants a positive report to give to Owen, thank you very much.

Craig nods. His fingers might brush against George’s own, or it could just be them both leaning together at the same time. “We don’t have to do media stuff, which is good, I guess, except you can’t defend yourself when they do start slating you.”

“The Northampton match, right?”

He sighs, huffing out a laugh halfway through. “That was years ago. I’m over it. But yeah, it’s that kind of thing. The RFU can say they support us, but it’s not the same.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” George tries. He couldn’t remember it from all the way back in 2015, but he’d dug up the highlights a few weeks ago to judge for himself. “You were young, and we all make mistakes.”

“Like I said,” Craig says tightly, “I’m over it.”

George grips Craig’s wrist briefly before he can lose his nerve. “Okay, sorry. How are those U20 law changes coming along?”

Craig flashes him a grateful smile, launching into an explanation of how the officiating of the ruck might change, and how it’s more difficult to police than they’d been expecting.

“So you just get to practise on each other?” George hadn’t known the specifics of referee training before this, but it’s a weird image in his mind.

“Pretty much. It was bloody weird the first time I had to do it – Barnesy and JP Doyle were scrapping it out on the floor while I was trying to tell them to stop, and they wouldn’t stop playing up.” There’s a fond smile on his face at the memory. “Like, because they’re not actual players and it’s all pretend, they’re more frustrating than in real games, which I suppose is what you want.”

“Am I annoying to ref?” He’s genuinely curious, and there’s not going to be a better opportunity to find out.

Craig shrugs. “Not really. It’s after fights and stuff, or when the front row start needling each other that it gets tricky.”

“But more captain involvement helps?” He’s not making notes as such, but he doesn’t want to make things harder for the refs unintentionally.

“If it’s a good captain, yes.” They stop by some fountains, the spray gusting into their faces every few seconds with the wind. “And you are, from what I’ve heard. Maybe a bit too northern, but you can’t help that.”

George elbows him, eyes still straight ahead. “Alright, whatever. I’ve lost a lot of the accent, what with playing in Bath for a while, so it could be worse.”

“I like it,” Craig admits. He’s facing forwards too, when George dares to flick his eyes sideways to look at him. “It’s different, but in a good way.”

He glances down, where their hands are brushing together between them. George moves his hand across a fraction of a centimetre, the movement measured and precise like everything he does, and Craig shifts to meet him.

Their little fingers brush. The adrenaline jolts his heart, and he could swear it skips a beat. Still – Craig is reciprocating, and it gives him the courage he needs to take the plunge, tangling Craig’s fingers with his own. No room for plausible deniability here, but maybe that’s okay.

Craig squeezes his hand. “I like this too,” he says, throaty.

“Different, but in a good way,” George agrees. His voice shakes a little too much for it to come off as confident as Craig, though he’s alright with that. He’s not the semi-out one here. He’s allowed to be nervous.

They walk on again after a few minutes more contemplating the fountains, hand in hand around the park. If Craig notices the way George tightens his grip every time someone comes into view, he doesn’t mention it.

“I really enjoyed this,” Craig says, once they’ve completed their slow circuit of the park and stopped by the main gate. “Thanks for spending your day off with me.”

“That’s alright.” He doesn’t know where to look, and his hand is definitely sweating in Craig’s. He can’t pull away, though – that would be rude, and give off entirely the wrong signals. “Thanks for making the trip up.”

Craig drops his hand, to George’s relief, and pecks a kiss on his cheek, pulling back before he has time to react. “If we don’t work out a time to meet again before you fly out – good luck in Japan. You’ll smash it.”

“The boys have been training hard,” George says, meeting Craig’s eyes for a long second. “Text me, okay?” Then, with a rush of bravery, he blurts out, “I’ll miss you.”

Craig’s face softens, and he hugs George close. “Same. It won’t be long, though. We could call, even.”

That’s not something they’ve done yet, but he’s surprised by how much he wants to. “Okay – if I can get away from the lads for long enough. I’m sharing with Ben Youngs at the moment, so…”

“I can imagine,” Craig says with a wry smile, and George grins back. Ben’s chatty enough without being captain.

“Right. Well, um – talk soon,” George says finally. God, he hates awkward goodbyes almost as much as awkward beginnings.

“Of course. See you soon, Georgie.” Craig, apparently with no such issues, takes a few steps backwards as he waves, then turns and disappears into the rush hour crowds just beyond the park gate.

He shakes his head, smiling. Faz had better not ask him how his day’s been, or he’s going to spill feelings everywhere, and he can’t begin to imagine the damage it could do to both their careers.

*

It’s not that George is a rugby hermit, not really. He has other friends, and he sees his family most weeks. He’s not isolated, he just – he gets attached too quickly, and falls too fast.

Being separated from Craig, not just by a few hundred miles but an entire continent on both sides and too many time zones to count, is harder than he’d expected. They text when they can, but there’s only a few minutes in the morning and evening when their free time matches up, so the rest of the time it feels like he’s sending messages out into the ether.

By some stroke of hideous luck, George is rooming with Ben again in the Miyazaki hotel, while Faz gets his own room – captain’s privileges, the little sod. It does mean that George can hide in there when he needs some alone time, away from Ben’s chattering or the constant banter of the other lads, but it’s not ideal.

“You never told me about who you met up with, back in June,” Owen says, on one such evening. He’s just finished talking to Georgie and Tommy, so he’s going to be all miserable for the next few hours. “What was their name, again?”

“I didn’t tell you,” George says. He’s on the bed while Owen’s sat on the floor, because he’s a good captain and a better mate. It’s a shame he’s married, really – he wouldn’t mind being with someone like him, where they can talk about rugby all day and not be teased for it.

“And are you going to now?” Owen asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Does it matter that much?”

“There’s nothing else going on, mate. Please?”

“Fine,” George pretends to huff. He stays facing Owen, though, so his friend knows he’s not actually upset. “He’s called Craig.”

Owen snorts. “Is he seventy years old?”

“No, he’s twenty-nine,” George says sniffily.

“Oh, an older man, then. Very interesting…”

“Shut up.” This time, he does roll over a little, just so he can’t make eye contact with Owen. “It’s not like that.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem if it was,” Owen says, and they’ve had this conversation, or some version of it, too many times over the years. Owen probably knew he was gay before he did, but he’s never said it out loud. He likes the illusion of the secret, kept safe inside.

George grunts. “Well, it might be,” he allows. His hands are shaking where he’s shoved them under the pillow, but Owen can’t see that. “Not sure if he wants to or not.”

Owen drags himself off the floor, pushing George’s legs off the bed to make room for himself. “Why not? You’re great.”

This is developing into a nightmare teenage-girl-sleepover situation. “No, I’m not. I’m short and weird and I can’t talk about anything other than rugby. Anyway, he’s really busy with his job, and so am I. It couldn’t work.”

“He likes rugby, though?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t play, but he watches a lot of it.” That’s about as much as he can say without giving Owen all the pieces to complete the puzzle.

“League too?”

“Not sure – I haven’t asked.”

“But he’s nice? That’s what matters.”

George sits up on his elbows, stares at his friend. “Him being nice matters more than if he watches league? Mate, married life changed you.” Owen shrugs, all bashful like he gets whenever he talks about his wife and son. “He’s nice, though. Knows his rugby stuff, which helps.”

Owen grins, reaching over to pat his knee. “Well, that’s a given. Me and Lenny were going to try and set you up with one of the England women if you hadn’t met anyone by Christmas.”

George shudders. “God, no. It’s just – mate, I’m gay.”

“Fordy, I know,” Owen says seriously. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah, but I hadn’t actually told you,” George says, feeling strangely whiny. Isn’t this supposed to be his moment for hysterics and hugging and all the rest of it? Owen’s just sitting there, watching him, and it’s a disappointing anti-climax.

“Well, now you have,” Owen says, still apparently unbothered. “You’re gay, and you’ve got a bit of a thing for a guy called Craig. Congrats.”

George hold his gaze. He trusts Owen, more than pretty much anybody else, but he’s not completely confident he’s not going to freak out in the next five minutes. “That’s it?”

“What, you want the speech?” Owen says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve got one if you really want. We can hold hands and I can feed you chocolate while you cry with angst.”

“Maybe later, when I let myself miss him,” George murmurs, staring at his hands. It’s been weeks since he saw Craig in person, since they held hands in Hyde Park.

When he looks up again, Owen’s stopped smiling. “Mate, that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve heard in ages. Hug?”

He appreciates being asked, especially in such a tactile environment. Still, it’s Owen – he’s not going to say no. Owen shuffles up the bed to envelop him in his arms.

“You’re a great guy,” Owen whispers into his hair, “and if being gay is part of that or not or you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s absolutely fine. I’m here for you if you want to talk about Craig or be angstily gay or – I don’t know, watch _Love, Simon_. You’re my best mate and this doesn’t change how I see you.”

“Thanks, Faz. Means a lot,” George snuffles into his chest. Maybe he’ll stay here for a few minutes. It’s comfortable, and he can’t be sad about not seeing Craig while Owen’s cuddling him.

*

It’s the win against the All Blacks that finally prompts George to pick up the phone and call Craig for the first time since he’s been out in Japan. He’s practically vibrating with the excitement, the knowledge that they’re _so close_ , so hyped up that he barely minds Owen shoving him into his hotel room and running off for a late-night debrief with Eddie.

He just wants to talk to Craig, sue him.

Craig doesn’t pick up the first time he calls, or the second, and his enthusiasm is fading. It’s almost lunchtime in the UK, so he should be free. It’s a Saturday. What else could he be doing? Except-

His – whatever Craig is to him; they haven’t really talked about it – is a referee. On a Saturday morning, he must be prepping for a Premiership game. He’d checked earlier in the week to see if he would be refereeing or just a touch judge, and he knows Craig’s the man in the middle today, wherever he’s required to be.

George checks the time, does the maths in his head. It’s ten at night in Yokohama, so there’s only a few hours left before Craig’s match starts. He’s probably having lunch.

He presses the call button again; it’s worth a shot. The phone rings five, six times, and he’s almost lost hope when the dial tone disappears, replaced by Craig’s pixelated face.

“Hi, baby,” he says, before there’s a rustling noise and the screen goes black. George keeps his mouth shut. If Craig’s having to move somewhere else to talk to him, or someone’s trying to see who’s calling, he’s not going to make the situation more difficult when he’s six thousand miles away.

(Yes, he has looked that up. He’s sad like that.)

A few seconds’ more noise, and then Craig reappears, significantly less pixelated. “Sorry about that – I was with the other refs, didn’t want them listening in.”

“That’s fine,” George says quickly. “How are you? Which match are you reffing? I did check, I swear.”

Craig laughs. “You’re allowed to forget, just this once. It’s London Irish against Sale, so I just had time to watch the end of your game before I had to leave.”

George smiles, a warm glow in his chest. “What did you think?”

“Nigel did an excellent job,” Craig says with a smirk. “I mean, your penalties were _fine_ , but Nige is getting on a bit for all the running you lot made him do.”

George pretends to frown. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself, love.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot twenty-nine was the age when you become a pensioner, my apologies.” They grin at each other through the screen. “You did great, though, honestly. Manu’s try was bonkers.”

George nods. “That was all him. Me and Faz are going to try and claim it was all part of our masterplan, but he just went off on one.”

“Well, it worked out, didn’t it?”

“Just a bit.” God, he’s happy. Actual, simultaneous success in his rugby and personal lives – who’d have thought it?

“Same time next week, then?”

“Yeah – same place, too. Less travel, which is always good.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m so proud of you, if you hadn’t realised already.”

George squirms under the intensity of his gaze, diluted as it is by the camera and the shitty connection. “Thanks. It means a lot, coming from my…” He trails off. This is neither the time nor the place to be having this conversation, for either of them.

“From your…?” Craig asks, eyebrows raised.

“Boyfriend?” George squeaks out.

“Boyfriend, eh?” Craig says. He looks pleased, but George is still on edge. “Sounds better than paramour, I’ll give you that.”

“You know I don’t know what that means,” George complains. If he’s making jokes, Craig must be fine with it, right?

“Just that we’re boyfriends, not illicit lovers on the side.” George screws up his nose. “Yeah, exactly. I’m proud of my England player boyfriend for getting to the World Cup final, that’s all.”

A knock on the door at Craig’s end disrupts the flow of their conversation, and Craig looks up, then back down at him. “It’ll be one of the other refs, ready for warmups,” he says, eyes darting back to the door. “I should go.”

“Alright. Good luck, love,” George says. Five minutes is better than nothing, he reminds himself.

“Thanks, George. Talk soon.”

The call disconnects, and George sits back on the bed with a happy sigh. It’s all coming together, one way or another.

*

The gratifying momentum he’d been building up in all areas of his life comes to a juddering halt, seven or nine days later, depending on your perspective.

England lose to South Africa the next week, just outplayed on the night. It stings, but George has the soothing comfort of Owen’s hugs and Craig over the phone (although never at the same time) to get him through it.

He’s about a third of the way over it, to recovering his equilibrium and shifting out of the World Cup mentality, ready to go back to England and the Premiership, when he gets the message from Craig.

 **CMK:** call me when you can. it’s bad

Then, a second later:

 **CMK:** I’m scared

He’s sitting with a few of the lads in the main common area of the hotel, waiting for everyone else to load their stuff onto the coach so they can head to the airport. He can’t run off and call Craig right now, as much as he wants – needs to, but it’s clearly urgent. Craig’s usually the positive one in their relationship.

George twiddles his thumbs for another two minutes until another wave of the team come through from dumping their kit. He sees Owen coming towards their group with no small measure of relief, and hops up to intercept him.

“You alright, mate?” Owen asks, laying a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Everything okay?”

George shakes his head, not sure what he can say or where to start. “No. I need to call Craig. Can you cover for me?”

“Of course,” Owen says immediately. “I can get you five minutes. The conference room down the main corridor on the left should be free – you can talk there.”

George nods, biting his lip. “Okay. Thanks, mate.” He’s grateful, and he hopes Owen understands that, because he hasn’t got time to say anything else.

He hurries off down the corridor, checking nobody’s following him before ducking into the empty conference room. A row of chairs wait for him to sit down, but he can’t. His hands are shaking as he clicks on Craig’s number, and the nervous energy coursing through his limbs won’t let him stop pacing.

For both their sakes, he hopes it’s not too serious. He’s never going to manage a twelve-hour flight in this state.

“George?” Craig says immediately. He sounds shaky, uncertain, and George hates it.

“I’m here,” he says, pressing the phone closer to his ear, like that’ll help anything.

“It’s – I don’t know how to say this. It’s really bad.”

“What’s it about? Start from there.”

“Us,” Craig replies.

George’s stomach drops.

“One of the other refs from last week, Adal, he heard our conversation and he’s reported me to the RFU for an undisclosed conflict of interest. I don’t know if he named you, but either way – I’ve been called in for a meeting tomorrow morning. Shit, I could lose my job!”

“Okay,” George says, trying to process what his boyfriend’s saying. He has to be the rational one here. “What are you going to do?” He doesn’t know what to do, so he hopes like hell Craig does.

“Go to the meeting, obviously, but – I don’t want to out you, but he might have done it already. Fuck me, I knew this was a bad idea.”

George tries not to feel hurt. “Don’t worry about me, not now. What’s the best-case scenario?”

“I can’t ref any matches you’re in anymore, which makes me a liability to the RFU. The other guys would have to cover for me.”

“Worst case?”

“Fired and outed, publicly. I could maybe get another job in a lab, but it’s hard to explain a gap in your CV like that.” He groans, and George just wants to hold him.

“Look, I’ve got to go in a minute – we’re leaving for the airport – but keep me updated. Think about what you’re going to do, and I’ll do the same on my end.”

“Okay. Okay. Safe flight, love.”

“I’ll see you soon, baby.”

He doesn’t want to think about whether Craig will still have a job when they meet again.

*

Normally, George is pretty good at hiding his nerves, or when he’s feeling particularly out of sorts. This situation is anything but normal, though, so it’s not a surprise when Owen snags his sleeve after they’ve checked in their luggage and picked up their boarding passes, pulling him to the back of the group.

“What’s up?” he murmurs, low enough for George to hear but nobody else.

“Shit’s gone down with Craig. We might be in trouble,” George whispers back. Saying the words out loud makes it even worse. What are the Leicester boys going to say? What are all the other teams going to say? He hadn’t been cheating – they’re both too professional for that – but it’s a fair accusation. His stomach clenches at the thought.

“What kind of trouble?” Owen asks immediately. “If you want to tell me, that is.”

The group has come to a halt, standing in the queue for security, so George digs his phone out to text Owen instead. It might all come out in the next few days, depending on how Craig’s meeting goes, but he’s not about to spread the news of his relationship around the team on the off chance the media get hold of the story.

 **GF:** Craig isn’t a rugby player, he’s a referee – that’s why we can talk about rugby stuff so much

 **GF:** one of the other refs heard us talking last week and reported it to the RFU, and he’s got a meeting tomorrow morning

 **OF:** you mean he’s a prem referee?

 **GF:** Craig Maxwell-Keys, yeah

 **GF:** we don’t know what his bosses are going to say, or how it’s going to affect our jobs

 **OF:** shit mate

Owen loops his arm around his shoulders, tugs him in for a hug. “He hasn’t reffed you that much, though, has he?” he says into George’s ear. “And it’s not like it would have affected the top of the table, or relegation. You weren’t that bad.”

George huffs out a wet laugh and pokes Owen in the side. “No, but it’s the principle of the thing. Also, I’ve basically been outed to the whole RFU – there’s no way this isn’t getting back to Eddie.”

Owen looks like he’s about to reply, but they’re at the front of the line and they have to separate to go through the security scanner. George takes off his belt and his shoes, puts his rucksack in a tray. This, at least, is calming. It’s what he’d expect.

He loiters at the edge of their group on the other side of the scanners, waiting for Owen to come through. Jamie’s been pulled over for a pat down, which is apparently hilarious to the rest of the team, but George can’t find any amusement in it.

He just wants to get home, and get this whole situation sorted out. He’s probably going to have to come out, to some extent. Being gay – it’s fine, within himself and with Craig and Owen, but it’s not something he wants to share with anyone else yet.

Thanks to that arsehole of a referee, he doesn’t have a choice.

Eddie makes sure everyone knows what gate they need to be at and when – ever the schoolteacher – and then people split up. George panics for a second that Owen’s leaving without him, leaving him to flounder. He’s not reliant on Owen, far from it, but everything feels like it’s closing in on him.

All the strange faces, the blur of different languages and smells and sensations, garbled announcements and too-bright lights – shit, he needs to sit down.

Someone grabs his elbow, and he flinches. “It’s okay, mate,” Ben says, wide-eyed like he’s trying to convince him. “Let’s get you to a bench, yeah? It’s okay.”

George lets himself be towed to a seat, flopping down on it without any encouragement from Ben. “You’re alright, Fordy, it’s okay. Should I – oh, hey, Faz.”

“Hey, Fordy,” Owen says, squatting down in front of him, and George could cry with relief. “Can you take your rucksack off for me?” He tugs off the straps with weak hands, shuddering tremors running through his body. “Nobody we know can see you, don’t worry.”

He tries to focus on the steady weight of Owen’s hand on his knee, but it only partially works.

“What’s wrong with him?” he hears Ben say to Owen, somewhere in the distance.

“It’s not my place to say,” Owen answers. “He’s going through a tough time, that’s all.”

George paws at Owen’s hand, trying to get his attention. “It’s okay,” he mumbles between rushing breaths. “Tell him.”

“If you’re sure. All of it?” Owen says, locking eyes with him and waiting for his nod before speaking again. “Fordy’s boyfriend – yeah, he’s gay – is-”

George tunes it out. He can’t look at Ben’s face, not for the next minute or so while Owen explains the whole stupid situation. If he hadn’t been so idiotic, so easily swayed by a pair of rainbow laces and a kind smile, this entire thing could have been avoided. Still – it’s easy to say that now.

It feels like hours have passed when Ben crouches down next to Owen, waving his hand to break him out of his thousand-mile stare.

“George, buddy, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not great, but I understand. Love is love, and you can’t stop it.”

He nods, tears welling up again. He might not be able to stop it, but the RFU can.

“What are you going to do about it?” Ben continues.

“Good question,” George says, and a few tears spill over. “There’s not much fucking point hiding it now, though, so – might as well let him tell them everything, and hope we don’t lose our jobs.”

If Craig lost his job, he could go back to his lab work, but George – he would probably have to go to another country for a few seasons to regain any credibility, and then he wouldn’t be picked for England. He hides his face in his hands, tears turning from a trickle to a stream. Shit, he might have played his last game for England, and it was a shitty, sodding loss to South Africa.

“Is it worth telling Eddie?” Ben asks, and George appreciates that he’s trying to help.

“Not really – with all the time differences, the meeting will have finished by the time we land, probably.”

Owen sighs. “Well, we’ve got your back, anyway. I can put in a good word for you as captain, and Ben can back you up for Leicester stuff, if it comes to that.”

“Thanks, mate,” he sniffs. God, he must look an absolute sight, all snotty and red-eyed. As long as he can blame it on losing the World Cup at the final hurdle, not his impending unemployment, he might get away with it.

“How about we go and buy some snacks for the flight?” Ben proposes. “You hate plane food.”

George nods, lets the other two pull him to his feet. Wordlessly, Owen slings his rucksack over the other shoulder from his own, and they walk along to the duty-free area as George feels like he’s about to cry again.

He hopes Craig has half the support with him that he does.

Then again, he’s out to his family, and isn’t that something George should sort out before his dad gets wind of all this through the rugby grapevine? He’ll do it later, he decides quickly enough, and ignores his phone in his pocket. It’s just over an hour until their plane takes off, so he can build up the courage slowly.

Ben and Owen shepherd him around the overpriced food shops, and then it’s time to wait at the gate. A few of the boys are already here, a cluster of Exeter players huddled around someone’s phone, but mostly it’s empty. He’s grateful; he has a text to write.

 _I’m gay_ , he types first, on the family group chat, before he decides it’s too risky – what if he sends it by accident before he’s ready? =- and switches to the notes app. _I’m gay, and_ -

What’s he meant to put now, to contextualise it? _I’m gay and dating a referee and we’ve been found out so I’m telling you now in case it gets out, not because I want to or because I’m ready to_.

No. Definitely not that.

He tinkers with the exact wording for another fifteen minutes, until there are too many people around for him to feel safe having those words on his phone screen for anyone to catch sight of.

He’s oddly calm, despite it all. Maybe it’s the sense of an all-encompassing, unavoidable disaster heading his way, like with Hagibis a few weeks ago. There’s nothing he can do to make the situation any better, so he might as well sit tight and keep calm as best he can.

They board the plane. He has a new stamp on his passport, a churning knot of nerves in his stomach, and an unsent text sitting on his phone, but at least he’s sitting next to Ben. He’ll talk his ear off, no doubt about it, but he knows what’s going on with George. He’d have preferred Owen, if he’s being honest, but Ben’s a close second.

Somehow, he still has WiFi from the terminal in his plane seat. It would have been easier to not have it at all, the decision of whether to send the text or not taken out of his hands, but he almost wants to send the text now.

Things are going to hell in a handbasket for him already in England, so one more bit of chaos won’t change much.

He copies and pastes the text from his notes into the compose field. It wouldn’t take much for it to be out there, but – no. He switches to his conversation with Craig, sending a few lines of hearts and an emoji of a four-leafed clover. He’s absolutely procrastinating (he hadn’t known that emoji existed five minutes ago) but it’s fine. The plane isn’t taking off yet. He has time.

In the end, the decision is taken away from him by the pinging of the seatbelt lights overhead. He’s got two minutes, max.

Fucking, shitting, fucking Christ, he hates that guy for doing this to them.

Heart in his mouth and adrenaline in his veins, he sends the message to his parents and his brothers, then follows up with _I love you_ to Craig. They haven’t said it before, and if this all goes wrong, they probably won’t say it in the future, but George thinks he deserves to know. They’d been happy together, before all this kicked off.

The plane’s engines rise in pitch and volume, and they’re moving away from the stand at long last. George turns off his phone and buries it at the bottom of his bag. He doesn’t need to see it. The flight’s going to be bad enough without it.

*

George is drained by the time the plane lands at Heathrow. Forget the actual all-encompassing fear of flying, it’s the constant stress about what’s happening four thousand miles away, then three thousand, then two thousand, then one thousand, and he must fall asleep for a few blessed minutes because he wakes up to Ben prodding him in the shoulder, the lights of the cabin glaringly bright where they’d been dimmed before.

“Almost time for descent,” Ben murmurs, pointing up at the little plane graphic on the map. George nods, gets some chewing gum out of his bag to stop his ears popping. His fingers brush over his phone as he digs around for the gum, but he forces himself to ignore it.

He’ll know the outcome in about half an hour anyway – or, if not the outcome, the next step in this horrible, torturous process.

The only upside is that Ben’s Charlotte has agreed to give him a lift home, though he’ll be in the back with Boris and Billie. He’s had worse car journeys, and he’s not in a fit state to drive at the moment.

The plane lands with a bump, shuddering a little before righting itself. The seatbelt signs go off. He could check his phone, now the signal’s back, to see what degree of dreadfulness he’s going to have to face, but he can’t. He wants to stay in the blissful ignorance of the flight for as long as he can.

“Can you just check,” he whispers to Ben, everyone shuffling around them, “if there are any news stories mentioning me? Just so I know if it’s leaked.”

Ben nods, looking down at his phone and presumably doing a search for George’s name. He has a minor level of celebrity so it’s not something he usually bothers with, but this is different. It might be picked up by some news outlets as a good thing, but the majority of the ‘traditional’ rugby media will be hostile, he’s sure.

(Especially considering the conflict of interest. That’s not so easy to weasel out of.)

Ben shakes his head. “Can’t find anything. Not on any of the sites, or Twitter. I think you’re good, mate.”

George pats him on the shoulder before picking up his bags, ready to disembark behind the rest of the squad. “Thanks, Lenny. I’ll check later, I promise, but not right now.”

Ben nods like he understands, and they join the queue in the aisle. Somehow, Owen’s manoeuvred himself into the line in front of George, and he twists round to smile at him. “Alright?” he murmurs, quiet enough that Ellis ahead of him won’t hear.

“Haven’t looked at my phone yet,” George admits, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “Scared, but nothing we can do now.”

Owen squeezes his shoulder, nods in solidarity. “Well, keep me posted. I’ll do what I can, if it comes to that.”

They smile at each other, and then it’s time to get off. Time to face the cameras, the music, the truth of the situation – George is dreading it.

The terminal’s fairly empty, which isn’t surprising given it’s a weekday and six in the morning. A few paparazzi are lurking to catch them coming out of arrivals, but that’s all. Maybe people aren’t too bothered by them losing – maybe they never cared at all?

Still, he can’t hope that the RFU don’t care about this shitshow. It wasn’t like last time, where Chris was the obvious one with his head on the chopping block – they’d played well, right up until it actually counted. No, instead it’s just a bit of a damp squib, where the promises of _next time_ carry more fire and determination than they might have done four years previously.

Though if the RFU don’t care about their miserable loss, they can easily distract themselves by raking Craig over the coals, even with George out of the country.

He makes sure to greet Charlotte and say hi to the kids, hugging them carefully, before he dares to turn off airplane mode. He’s not looking at the messages yet – that can wait until they’re in the car, in private – but he wants to know how many he’s dealing with.

If it’s gone badly, Craig will probably have sent a flood of messages. A good outcome should be easier to convey, or at least written more coherently. On the other hand, he could have shut down completely, sending George only the bare minimum.

He feels his phone vibrate against his hand where he’s wedged it in his jacket pocket. Having the England branding all over him doesn’t help the anxiety. When’s the next time he’ll have this privilege, if ever?

It hadn’t occurred to him before, but they’d be within their rights to ban him. He doesn’t know how long for, not being the referee in the relationship, but it seems more and more plausible with every passing second.

He could take a ban. Better than having to move to another league, another country, and leave Craig behind – better than having to explain all this to his agent to negotiate with new teams.

But people would want to know why he’d get a ban. Unsportsmanlike conduct, probably, or bringing the game into disrepute, officially, but the rumours would start to circulate within days. His dad would absolutely find out, and – _shit_.

He’d come out to his family, thirteen hours and half a lifetime ago. That’s something else he needs to sort out, preferably between here and Market Harborough so he’s got the calming influence of Ben and Charlotte and their kids to keep him together.

“Come on, Fordy,” Ben says, elbowing him, and he startles. “We’re going now.”

George nods absently, looks around the arrivals area like someone’s going to jump out and say this was all a sick joke. Nothing happens, save for Owen giving him a thumbs up from where he’s hugging Georgie. They’re too cute together.

He’s not jealous, except for how he is. Him and Craig are just as compatible, he’s sure, but some stupid rules had to get in the way and make them justify themselves. It’s bullshit, and for a second the anger overrides his fear.

Only for a second, though – the overwhelming tension floods back in soon enough, and he trails after the Youngs family with his luggage trolley.

George has to squeeze into the middle of the backseat, the kids’ car seats apparently too difficult to move. Every time the car goes round a corner, he tenses so he doesn’t crush either of them, but the swinging sensation in his stomach is more abject terror than anything else.

“Stop twitching and check your phone,” Ben says from the front seat.

George pulls a face, which Charlotte apparently catches in the rearview mirror. “Look, why don’t you get Ben to read it first, to make sure it’s not awful? If it is, at least you’ll be prepared.”

“You’re the brains of the family, clearly,” he jokes weakly, unlocking his phone and handing it over to Ben.

“Which ones do you want me to look at first?” Ben asks, waving the phone around. George tries not to fixate on the little red notification alerts by the messenger apps. “ _Ford family_ or _Craig MK_?”

George shrugs, kneading his fists into his thighs to push away the nervous energy. “The family one, I guess.” He’s not usually carsick, but he’s feeling distinctly queasy as Ben starts reading the messages. It’s probably because he’s not used to sitting in the back anymore. That’s all.

It takes way too long for Ben to say anything. Can he not speedread, or were there just that many messages from his parents and his brothers, or is he trying to phrase the rejection diplomatically? He might burst with the waiting.

“What is it?” he grits out. Billie’s asleep next to him; he can’t wake her up and start a chain reaction of crying. “Tell me.”

“It’s-” Ben starts, and George doesn’t know whether to punch his friend or himself. “It’s fine, mate. I don’t think your dad’s very happy about it being Craig in particular, but everything else seems to be fine. Joe and Jacob are good lads – you shouldn’t have worried.”

George bites on his lip to stop the instinctive retort. Ben’s never going to know the fear of this kind of vulnerability, this kind of potential rejection. It’s not his fault, but he needs some bloody sensitivity training. Maybe he’ll suggest it to Eddie, if he’s in a position to do so after all this.

He can ask Owen to bring it up on his behalf, at the very least.

“I’ll see what Craig’s said now,” Ben says, a few seconds later.

George’s stomach churns, roiling like the high seas in the middle of a hurricane. His family are important, of course, but this is the big one. This is what decides if he loses rugby, his job – the man he loves.

He jams his fist in his mouth and bites down to keep from yelling at Ben. He could read the messages himself, but it’s easier this way. Having the imperfect filter of Ben in place is useful, sometimes.

“He’s – oh, shit. He says he’s forwarded you the minutes of the meeting, and that it’s all in there. He’s sorry, for what he had to do, and he loves you too.”

“Let me see,” George demands, holding out a shaking hand for the phone. _For what he had to do_ – George had explicitly told him that whatever he needed to say was fine, but he hadn’t thought it would actually come down to that. It’s a good thing he took the precaution of telling his family, then.

Craig’s last message is a string of hearts to match the ones he’d sent at the airport, seven hours ago, and George does the same before switching to his emails.

(He hopes Craig isn’t going to be awake to see the text, but it’s the thought that counts. If he’s up at this time of the morning after the day he must have had yesterday – maybe he should have gone straight to his boyfriend’s house instead of running to the seclusion of his own place.)

The email looks frighteningly official, a reminder that – as much as he’d hoped – the RFU are really involved now, in their fledgling relationship. He’s not ready to leave the nest, not in the slightest, but sometimes the mother birds force their chicks out to make them fly and move on. This might be a similar situation, if he applies the right mindset to it.

He scans the first few paragraphs, then realises he’s taking nothing in and tries again. A few words and phrases jump out at him from the blur.

_Conflict of interest… Serious repercussions… Premiership teams informed… The other party in the relationship… Anonymity for the duration of the case… Sensitive… Impact on domestic and international matches…_

George screws his eyes shut. If he’d been overwhelmed and overstimulated before, he’s about to shatter into a hundred tiny pieces now. Billie’s gentle snoring next to him is the only thing keeping him from bursting into ugly tears.

“What have they said?” Ben asks, reaching a hand back to pat George on the knee. “Is it okay?”

“Not sure,” George murmurs. This legal stuff would go over his head on a good day, let alone with the jetlag and emotion numbing his brain. “I have to go to a meeting in a few days to confirm the relationship and give my side of the story, I think. They’re told the other clubs, as well.”

“Fuck,” Ben swears, not looking remotely repentant for cursing in front of his children. “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll have to be,” George says grimly, even as tears gather – _again_ , he’s going to shrivel up at this rate. “My agent’s probably got something to say about it, and Geordie. Jesus Christ.”

“Well, have a nap first, before you try and deal with all that,” Charlotte says, the first time she’s spoken all conversation. “You need to be thinking clearly – don’t rush into something you’ll regret later.”

He knows it’s not intentional, but it’s eerily like his internal monologue when he’d first decided to message Craig, and then meet up with him, and take his hand and kiss him and everything after.

“I’ll sleep for a bit, then sort stuff out,” George decides. Up until half a day ago, he’d been planning to sleep off the jetlag and then go on a food shop, not have a nap for a couple of hours and then try to rescue his career from a burgeoning scandal.

“Come over for dinner, if you want,” Charlotte offers. “I bought plenty of food because I knew Ben would be hungry, so it won’t make much of a dent to have someone else round.”

George smiles tiredly. “Thanks. That would be great.”

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, Boris is poking him in the shoulder and whispering, “Uncle George, you need to wake up! Home time!”

He blinks, looking past the little boy out the window to see his house, dark and empty. “Alright. Thanks, mate.”

Boris pats his head, grinning. “See you for dinner! Mummy says me and Billie can make you and Daddy a cake, but we’re not supposed to tell you.”

George presses a finger to his lips, whispers, “Don’t worry about it – it’s our secret.”

Boris beams at him, before wiggling out of his seat to let George past. “Bye bye!”

“Bye, kid – and thanks for the lift, Char,” George says as he ducks out of the car. Ben’s already unloading his stuff from the boot.

“Not a problem,” she smiles. “It was good to see you. Look after yourself, alright? Call if you need anything.”

George nods obediently, though he knows it’ll take a lot for that to happen. He goes round to the back of the car and grabs the few bags Ben’s left on the drive.

“Text if you’re not up to dinner,” Ben says. “We’d like to see you, of course, but – if it’s too much, just say.”

He nods, then goes for a hug that ends up being more him slumped, exhausted, against Ben’s shoulder than anything else. “Be nice not seeing your ugly mug for a few hours.”

“Yeah, yeah, you love me really,” Ben chuckles. “Now, go and have a nap, and get over the jetlag before trying to sort anything.”

“Thanks for reminding me, mate,” George grumbles. “See you later.”

“Alright, mate,” Ben says, backing away down the drive. “Good luck.”

George waves at him one last time, then unlocks the front door and drags his bags and his body over the threshold. Sleep first, and then – sorting out that clusterfuck. _Great_.

*

The next few days are all a bit of a blur, and that’s without the excuse of jetlag. One moment, he’s dragging himself out of bed and down to his laptop to read the minutes of the meeting properly – it’s that serious that he doesn’t feel right just scrolling through on his phone – and the next, he’s walking out of the hearing with Craig, halfway to having a panic attack.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Craig murmurs, resting a hand on the small of his back. The building doesn’t exactly have many quiet corners, with it being almost lunchtime, but somehow they manage to hide away in a room so small it might as well be a broom cupboard.

George lets Craig ease him down onto a chair, and drops his head into his hands.

“Easy there,” Craig says. He’s not touching him anymore. It’s probably the right thing to do, as much as George longs for the comfort of his embrace. “It’s going to be alright, I’m sure of it.”

George nods snottily, pulling himself upright. “I just – didn’t think it would be that hard.”

“Good thing we agreed no sexting, though,” Craig says with half a smile. “That would have been awkward.”

With a flash of daring, George reaches out and takes his hand. Nobody’s around to see them, and it might not matter in a few minutes anyway. “No dirty messages, and no dirty talk,” he agrees. “I’d have died of embarrassment. Would have made this whole thing a lot easier.”

Craig tsks at him, fond. “This isn’t quite how I imagined seeing you again after Japan, but – I missed you.”

“Me too,” George gets out, scooting his chair forward so they can hug. “Not the same without you, and when the lads all had their partners there for the final.”

“It’s not fair, but it is what it is,” Craig says, kissing the side of his neck.

The disciplinary officials had been more concerned about the conflict of interest of those four Leicester matches Craig had refereed in the time they’d been talking. He’d already given them the details earlier in the week so the footage has been reviewed, but George had to confirm the relationship and tell his side of the story too before the final decision would be made.

“How long did they say? Fifteen minutes?” George tightens his grip around Craig’s waist. If the pronouncement is that they can keep their jobs but not be in a relationship anymore – he doesn’t know how he’ll cope.

“Yep. Sounded like they’d made most of the decision already, if you ask me. They just wanted to make sure our stories checked out.”

They sit in silence, pressed so close together that George could swear he hears the beating of his boyfriend’s heart.

“Whatever happens,” he whispers, “I don’t regret this. I don’t regret you – us.”

Craig sighs, voice wet when he speaks. “Neither. I never thought I’d find someone who gets me like you, with the rugby obsessiveness and all. Maybe it was too good to be true, that’s why it had to end.”

“It doesn’t,” George says fiercely. “It doesn’t have to end. And you’re not just a rugby nerd – that’s me. You’re so much more.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s not make this a competition. I love you, how about that?”

“Love you more,” George counters, and they both laugh.

They have to laugh, or they’ll cry. Less than the length of a rugby pitch away, three old, white, and very probably straight men are making the decision that will decide the future of their relationship and their careers.

Craig’s phone buzzes in his pocket, the vibration coming through to George’s thigh where they’re touching. “They’ve decided.” He pulls back from George, and George sneaks one last kiss for luck before they go back out.

This is it. He’d take a ban for Craig, or the end of his international career, or pretty much anything short of not being allowed to play in England anymore. If he can’t be with Craig, then he can’t see the point.

They walk together, hand in hand, until they reach the door of the hearing room. George can feel his heart rate rising, breath quickening, and he clutches Craig’s wrist for support.

“It’s going to be okay,” Craig whispers as he knocks on the door. George smiles weakly at him, and they enter.

The attendant directs them to the same seats they were in earlier, uncomfortably far apart and facing the panel.

It’s odd, George thinks, how he’s deathly calm all of a sudden. He can’t change anything now – can’t call Owen to be a last-minute character witness, can’t appeal to the Leicester boys or Eddie for support. What’s done is done, it is what it is, and the man in the middle is already talking.

“-obviously a serious case of misconduct,” he reads from the paper. George doesn’t mind the lack of eye contact; the other two officials are gazing off into the distance, and surely if something terrible was about to happen, they’d be more focused?

“A conflict of interest of this kind, at this level, was unexpected and there was nothing in the laws governing against it, but we can safely assume the potential for a conflict of interest. From the evidence presented by Mr Maxwell-Keys and Mr Ford-” George dares to glance at Craig, and finds him looking back. He grimaces.

“-and thorough reviewing of match footage and personal communications by the disciplinary panel, we see no proof of a change in either defendant’s behaviour in a professional setting.”

That’s good, right? They’ve realised the truth, at the very least.

“Therefore, taking into account the good character of both those involved, we cannot issue a punishment for the named offence occurring before this date.”

George would argue with the description of their relationship as an offence, but it’s not the time or the place.

“Going forward, however, we will issue a statement to the referees’ selection panel forbidding Mr Maxwell-Keys from involvement in any match played by Mr Ford or his club. Periodic review of this judgement may be required, if the situation changes. As it is, the defendants are free to go.”

The three old men stand up and shuffle out of the room, and the attendant gestures to George and Craig with half a smile on her face. “Good luck,” she whispers. “I’ll be cheering for you both.”

Craig, always more comfortable with the unexpected, grins as he reaches for George’s hand. “Thanks. We appreciate it.”

She tips her head in acknowledgement and George makes sure to smile before he’s dragged out by Craig.

“Thank God,” Craig mumbles into his shoulder, squeezing him tight. “I was shitting myself. All that dramatic pausing – what a twat.”

George snuggles into him. They’re in public, but who cares? Forget the law of the land, or the approval of their friends and family – the literal RFU says they’re allowed to be together, and he can’t ask for more.

“We should get that statement printed, put it up on the wall in the living room,” he says. Relief is bubbling in his stomach, along with a healthy dose of pure happiness. It’s like coke and mentos – he’s going to explode from the heady mixture.

“Whose living room?” Craig hugs him closer, eliminating the last fraction of a centimetre between their bodies.

“Well – I was going to ask you later, but seen as we’re here – mine? I mean, ours? Just, you like Market Harborough, right? And it’s close enough for you to be get to training-”

Craig cuts him off with a kiss. “I’d love that, Georgie. Not right this second, but soon, yes, absolutely.”

George kisses back, curling his hands around his boyfriend’s neck. “That’s great. I mean, we probably shouldn’t ask for the statement yet anyway, so they don’t think we’re not taking it seriously.”

“Babe, you looked like you were going to pass out. Nobody thought you weren’t being serious about it. Anyway, you’re serious about everything.”

“I’m serious about you,” George murmurs.

Craig pulls a face, prods him in the side. “Don’t be gross. Just because we’re legally allowed to be together doesn’t mean we’re going to become _that_ couple.”

“Why not?” George grins. The coke-and-mentos feeling is subsiding. He’s just happy. “I think it’s sweet.”

“I’ll think about it.” Craig rolls his eyes and pulls back, taking George’s hand. “Ready to go? I found a nice place nearby for lunch.”

Georeg nods, squeezing their fingers together. “Of course. This was almost worth the whole conflict of interest issue, you know?”

“I’m glad you said _almost_ ,” Craig says, “or I was about to yell at you. But, as it is – time for lunch, and we can forget about all this.”

And with that, they walk out of the RFU building, into freedom and the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Mm, yes - the classic 'don't know how to finish it so make it cheesy' ending.  
> I'd love to hear what you thought in the comments, or on [Tumblr!](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


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